


Teal

by Val_Creative



Series: Rainbow Femslash February 2020 [17]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Action, Alternate Canon, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, F/F, Femslash, Femslash February, Femslash February 2020, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Nudity, Period Typical Attitudes, Season/Series 01, Sexual Content, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-19 13:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22778659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: When the seas get rough, she told Eleanor to come to her. Max will always be her harbour. For strength. For love and reassurance and understanding. There is no doubt in her mind.
Relationships: Eleanor Guthrie/Max
Series: Rainbow Femslash February 2020 [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620025
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22
Collections: Femslash February





	Teal

**Author's Note:**

> I need a full rewatch of this TV show. It's one of the best TV shows ever. I've never been straightbaited and the gays unburied in their own plot before. 💝💝💝 Okay so this was for Day 17 " _Fire_ " for the [prompts](https://femslashfeb.tumblr.com/post/190473208546/any-world-any-fandom-any-originals-however-you) and any comments/thoughts would be definitely appreciated! Please mind the warnings! The noncon is not Max/Eleanor.

*

She could do with a fire.

Max swaddles herself in Eleanor's linens and the muslin sheets, frowning thoughtfully. Night air billows in through the wooden-latch door. She presses a hand delicately to a swanskin pillow, impatiently arranging herself. It's far too cold.

This is a bedchamber rightly meant for a governor's daughter. Wide and spacious. An upholstered chair of purple, worn silk. Armoires and chaises and fine, polished mirrors. Two darkwood bookshelves full of ratty pages, scrawled in English and French and other languages Max is still acquiring the knowledge of. She often lies awake after fucking Eleanor, reading them by taperlight.

But no governor's daughter _herself_. Eleanor seems late.

Max turns her head when the chamber-door creaks opens. "My god," she mumbles, stricken, horrified at the view of her beloved. Dark, rich lifeblood trickles down Eleanor's chin. "What have they done… what have they done to you…?"

 _"I did it,"_ Eleanor confesses, her voice dull. Her bright blue eyes flushed, welling in visible tears.

It's not just her mouth. Max can see most of Eleanor's broadcloth, teal dress has been soaked in fresh blood. She heard a ruckus from outside, stomping and yelling, but knew not of the nature. She understands it now.

More men like Mister Sanderson of the Trinity exist on this island. Unable to shy away from cowardly tendencies. Rough and _mean_ , and half-witted.

Eleanor tried to calmly settle a dispute. The half-witted pirate fought her instead, hitting Eleanor's face, beating her in the stomach and ribs until she fell over. None of the other men and woman defended her. They never would.

He tried to face-fuck her, whipping out his cock and stuffing it into Eleanor's panting, lovely mouth. She bit him. His high-pitched wails echoed through the darkened tavern, and yet, they all did nothing. Eleanor climbed back to her feet, gripping his hair and biting off the pirate's ear. She snatched a knife off a whore's belt. It went deep into one of his eyesockets.

Eleanor's assailant crumpled to the floor, slowly dying, gurgling helpless as she spat her mouthful of bloody, fleshy ear into his own face.

They did nothing because men, women, all who reside in Nasseau know _better_ than to disturb Mistress Eleanor Gurthrie.

"You need a wash, come… come," Max scolds her gently, holding Eleanor's fingers into hers. When the sea gets rough, she told Eleanor to come _to her_. Max will always be her harbour. For strength. For love and reassurance and understanding.

Max undoes the buckles and strings to Eleanor's garments, letting them fall.

The water from the steel basin is colder than the room.

She doesn't hear a complaint from Eleanor, grasping her arms and sides, cleaning her off with a woolfell-like rag. Rinsing her. Max's hosiery and her fleece skirts dampens in red-tinged water. She tuts, listening to Eleanor's small, vulnerable noises.

She only feels safe with Max. Max knows this.

Max loves her even drenched in another person's blood.

Eleanor shudders and cries to herself, pale as sin. She embraces Max hurriedly, clinging naked to Max's soothing, deep-rumbling words in her ear. There's a odour of weak, honeyed liquor and sugarcane in her well-oiled black curls.

Her mouth overflows spittle-crimson.

"You are _mine_ , Eleanor," Max whispers, kissing her face, kissing her breasts and her tiny, clenching mound. "And I am _yours_."

*


End file.
